It Was Christmas in Las Vegas
by Sunset
Summary: Yet another post Grave Danger. Very short peice.


He leaves the light on now. Tried leaving the tv on the first night home from the hospital, but the glare from the screen was to reminiscent of the glow sticks, and didn't even last half an hour before he switched on the bedside lamp, adding to the light that envelopes him in his bedroom.

Not that Nick has any hope of real sleep. The nightmares come so quickly, and he wakes up sweating, swearing, screaming. It's the screams that startle him back into consciousness, and he wakes disorientated, terrified. The small illumination highlighting the familiar surroundings, the possessions gathered over a lifetime, the comforter tangled around his feet, kicked away during the struggle with the dream, the give of the mattress beneath his hands, all of it, piece by piece, offer a comforting ticket back to reality, assurance that again, it was only a dream this time.

He sits up in his bed, grateful for the open space above him, swallowing the sobs stuck in his throat, and forces himself to take deep breaths, willing away the remnants of the dream. The smell of the earth in his nostrils; the stir of the swarm of ants on his skin, the haunting melody of that song, the song that had been his companion down there, and was now like an ex-girlfriend, a regretful reminder. The calming breaths take hold, his heartbeat slows, the hairs on the back of his neck lay back down.

He stares at his feet, the song playing in his head like faint background music, and he wonders if he'll ever sleep again. He's not even tired, he admits to himself. Not released for work yet, he spends his days entertaining the well wishing friends that drop by at what seems to him like scheduled intervals. Sara brings breakfast on her way home. Warrick usually brings a movie, some space cowboy flick from the sixties, with special effects bad enough to turn the film into a comedy. When it's his turn to visit, Greg brings a video game, and once, for reasons Nick couldn't fathom, but wasn't ungrateful for, he brought Hodges and, of all things, a Dukes of Hazard board game. Catherine, ever the mother figure, brings him spaghetti, and hand drawn get-well cards from Lindsay. Grissom brings nothing but himself and a quiet sense of release from the duties of playing host.

It's not enough to tire him out, and so, here he sits, tearing his gaze away from his feet to stare at yet another 3 am infomercial, and he knows where he needs to be. The place he's been going to, the only place that brings him any sense of relief, a place that calls out to him, over the noise of the city.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Nick knows he has no choice but to go there again tonight. With a sigh of exhaustion, he swings his feet onto the floor, and after a moment gets up and gets dressed.

He plays cd's in the truck, not trusting the radio, fearing he might hear that song playing on one of the local stations. Gwen Stafani sings to him quietly from the speakers as he drives through the mild Vegas night air, knowing the route by heart now. His destination was one of those places that he'd always known existed, but never had any use for, like a day care center or a bicycle repair shop, expect that now, this place offered more comfort to him than his own bed.

Pulling the truck into the empty parking lot, he turns off the headlights and sits in the stillness that surrounds him. A breeze blows though the open windows, drying the beads of sweat on his brow, and bringing the dark, sweet sent of the earth and freshly cut grass into his nostrils. He climbs out the truck, shutting the door behind him, the clash of metal on metal as the door latches shut echoes in the empty air.

The blacktop of the parking lot is wet, intermittent puddles dotted around him, and he looks up to the sky to estimate the clouds, but ends up marveling at its beauty. The song swirls around his head, and he's reminded again of the purpose of his trip.

Sloshing through two of the puddles, he steps up onto the curb, and steps onto the wet, muddy grass. Stopping for a moment, feeling his shoes sink into the soft soil, he surveys the landscape before him.

Squares of marble and concrete dot the lawn, most are simple, others, elaborate, the kind of elaborate that only the rich or extremely devoted had done. He'd been to a cemetery before, but until two weeks ago, hadn't been to _this kind_ of cemetery, and now, as he makes his way past the headstones, headed for the mausoleum in the back he remembers how awe struck he'd been at the first sight of the devotion in the headstones and memorials splayed out before him.

Reaching the mausoleum, he heads directly to his destination, he'd picked it out himself, had paid for the whole thing his self, refusing his friends confused but well meaning offers of contributions. It was something he'd had to do, known it in his gut as soon as they'd told him about it, and so he'd taken care of it all, from the cremation to the inurnment. He'd picked the mausoleum because there was no way he could put that creature back into the ground.

He stops, his feet in the middle of another puddle of rainwater. A brass plaque marks the final resting place, words that have had new meaning to Nick in the last two weeks; one word is etched into the metal, the only name he could come up with when the curator had asked. _Compadre_.

The dalmatian from the proto type had been the only living thing that had went through the same experience; had known the same fear, the same rage, and Nick could think of no better name for the dog that had died the death that was meant for him.

He reaches out with shaking fingers and traces the lettering on the plaque, then rests his forehead against the cool metal. He closes his eyes, and is grateful when all he sees is blackness. And then quietly, he begins to sing. _"It was Christmas in Las Vegas, when the locals take the town…"_


End file.
